


Oathbreakers

by BrightneeBee



Series: A Song of Ice and Fire: Lady Kenna Reed [3]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Betrayal, Budding Love, F/M, Finding Love, Heartbreak, Not Actually Unrequited Love, Oral Sex, Previous Sandor/OFC relationship, Rough Sex, Smut, Unrequited Love, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-18
Updated: 2019-12-24
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:55:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 12,070
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21843289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrightneeBee/pseuds/BrightneeBee
Summary: Whispers.They followed her through the entirety of the Red Keep, only dampened by the clanking of armor, and the stomping of feet as the surrounding Gold Cloaks as she was marched through the maze of corridors to the throne room. Still covered in blood, mud and soot, leather breeches and vest cut through and the arms of her wool tunic in tatters, she was in no way presentable for the new king, Joffrey Baratheon....
Relationships: Sandor Clegane/Original Female Character(s), Tyrion Lannister/Original Female Character(s), Tyrion Lannister/Shae, Tywin Lannister/Shae
Series: A Song of Ice and Fire: Lady Kenna Reed [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1573654
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Starts off much the same as Lionheart (Jaime/OFC) but there are some changes here and there in the chapters until it breaks off from the Lionheart plot into Tyrion/OFC specific.

CHAPTER ONE 

The Lady Reed

_Whispers._

They followed her through the entirety of the Red Keep, only dampened by the clanking of armor, and the stomping of feet as the surrounding Gold Cloaks as she was marched through the maze of corridors to the throne room. Still covered in blood, mud and soot, leather breeches and vest cut through and the arms of her wool tunic in tatters, she was in no way presentable for the new king, Joffrey Baratheon. Not only did she look like a beggar, the thin leather hide of her vest had ripped in several places, one of which exposed a small breast. Of course, it was hardly indecent with the amount of soil and dried blood that covered her pale flesh. If she were to look down she wouldn’t even be able to see her own nipple. 

The doors to the throne room opened without causing a pause in the synchronized steps of the Gold Cloaks. They had shackled her arms behind her back, clinking and jangling with every step she took. One guard held the end of the chain connected to the shackles used to secure her, thinking that there would be no possible way for her to fight back or attempt an escape. She simply smirked to herself, stopping as the guards stopped, and ignoring the fading whispers and the shocked looks. 

The Baratheon heir was still a slight thing, small and thin. Gold of hair, green of eye, and looking far too young to be sitting on the throne. He always had a malicious glint in his eyes, and the first time she had laid eyes on him, she had known there was something wrong with him - a sickness of the mind. It had been obvious months ago, and it was obvious at that moment - for one, he was no Baratheon, and two, the gods had not favored him when they flipped a coin.

Queen Cersei, or the Queen Regent, was sat next to the little king, looking just as beautiful, poised and regal as the first time she had looked upon the woman. She also looked quite smug, and calculating. From experience, it was never a good sign to see Cersei Lannister looking smug. 

“Lady Reed,” called the little king, Joffrey, self-satisfied and arrogant. “You’ve been brought before the court for you father’s treason. He refuses to pledge fealty to me, the rightful king. Do you have anything to say in your defense?”

She smirked again, never faltering to meet the boy’s gaze, “No, yer Grace. I’m a simple woman.”

“And of your father?” the boy pressed. “What do you have to say of him?”

“‘Tisn’t my place to question m’lord father,” she replied, matter-of-factly. “If he so chooses to remain neutral, who am I to defy him?”

“Then so be it,” spat Joffrey, a vicious little snarl from a vicious little lion cub. “I’ll have you beheaded now and be done with it.”

Ser Ilyn Payne started to unsheathe his sword, but she had spoke up before the man took a step, “Of course, I do command the crannogmen, and the houses sworn to House Reed. Perhaps I could be persuaded to change me father’s mind.”

“How many men, Lady Reed?” interjected Queen Cersei, looking positively intrigued. 

“15,000 men and women,” was the answer, with a smug smirk. “All children are battle trained from a wee age. House Reed has never discriminated on the basis of sex.”

“You’re lying!” hissed the boy king, obviously insulted and full of venom. “As if any man would take orders from a woman!”

It was now a challenge, or she took it that way. It must have been visible in her face, as the giant of a man - Sandor Clegane - took a step forward, hand on the pummell of his longsword. She recognized him by the scarred remains of the left side of his face, and the snarl forming through his face - Sandor Clegane. He was silently warning her, but there was so much more at stake than her own life. 

Of course, she couldn’t let fond memories deter her as she made the first move. She simply moved, and none of the Gold Cloaks understood what was happening until she was striking them next.

She started by slipping her wrists through the shackles cuffing her arms behind her back, which had been made for men specifically, and were wide enough to pull her hands free. She was slight, and strong, and quick, and she struck out like a viper. Thrusting her leg out, she kicked out the knees of the guard in front of her, and then threw her body into a turn. Using that momentum, she launched herself at the guard to her right. She manipulated her body, catching the guard’s neck between her thighs, and swung herself around once more, flipping the hefty into the crowd of nobles attempting to hastily back away to safety. 

She never hesitated, never stopped. She continued to move, strike, attack. She had watched for weak points in the formation, and in the guards themselves. She knew where to hit, who to go for first, and who was slow to react. It was simple enough, as one just needed to be observant, needed to know what to look for, and where to look. 

A few of the guards managed to land their punches, causing her to spit the blood pooling in her mouth back into their faces, and she took advantage of the momentary step back, the eyes clenched together as they rubbed the red from their vision. Some had even nicked her with their swords, and yet she launched and manipulated her body in ways that had been never seen before. She kneed guards in the groin, punched them with a calculated force to break their noses, until they were laid out on the stone floor around her, groaning and whimpering, or simply unconscious. None were dead, but they were severely injured, and she had done it all by hand. 

Looking back to the shocked, indignant face of the little king, she held her chin high and offered a smug look as she spoke up, “Does that answer yer question, Yer Grace?”

“That was quite the presentation, Lady Reed,” answered Cersei, regaining her composure. “A fine example of the prestige of the men and women of the Neck.”

“Thank you, Yer Majesty,” answered the young woman, eyeing Sandor out of the corner of her eye every so often. “As I said before, I’d be willin’ to bend the knee to King Joffrey on b’half of House Reed, and declare me army to yer cause, under certain conditions.”

“I could just kill you now, and command your army myself,” snapped Joffrey. 

She ignored the boy king, and continued to address Cersei, as she was more calculating, more aware of how the situation could escalate, and not in the Lannister favor. “Conditions are only two, and simple. Gentle mercy for Lord Eddard Stark of Winterfell, allow him to take the black and serve on the Wall. I also ask for a marriage to a suitor of my choice. Once I’m well and truly married, and the marriage properly consummated, I’ll order 6,000 of me best and strongest to join the campaign for yer cause. There’ll be no room for negotiation.”

The Queen Regent nodded, “The small council will discuss it. Who are your choices?”

“I’ll provide you with proposals within a month’s time, yer Majesty,” answered the lady. “If you permit, I would retire to my chambers to wash and rest.”

There was a silence that fell upon the court, waiting on the boy King to offer his approval and dismiss everyone. Joffrey simply sat upon the throne, leaning to the side and watching her with a narrow, indignant expression, obviously displeased at her insult to him by speaking to his mother directly. He was formulating a plan of attack, essentially. She could simply tell, having already sized up the boy within minutes of being in his presence months ago. He was spoiled, sadistic, and petty. He was also incredibly arrogant, ignorant, and drunk on power within days of ascending to the throne. There was also something dark and unnatural about him, probably due to being born out of incest. That had always been the case with the Targaryens. The Gods would flip a coin, that was the anecdote, but it had always proven to be true. 

“Very well,” snapped Joffrey, expression glittering with malicious glee. “Dog, escort Lady Reed to the baths. Make sure she finds her way to her chambers, as well. I believe the lady will enjoy accommodations in the black cells with Ned Stark.”

“Generous as yer offer may be, Yer Grace,” replied Lady Reed, setting upon him a steely gaze as she continued to stand her ground. “‘Tis improper for a virtuous lady such as meself to be sharin’ accommodations with a man, even an honorable man. I’ll return to me maiden chambers. I bid you a good night of quiet contemplation.” 

“I will kill you now, you insufferable woman!” snarled Joffrey, perched on the edge of the throne as he threw a tantrum. “I am your King! You will not disobey-”

She held her hand up to silence him, refusing to back down with a stern look and pursed lips, “I apologize, _Yer Grace_ , but you’re not _my_ king, yet. Crannogmen and First Men do not kneel to wee lads who’ve yet tasted battle. Bein’ king tisn’t sitting on a throne and demanding heads. The best advice anyone’ll ever give ye is this: sit down, be quiet, and learn from yer elders. Yer Queen mother understands this game. She also understands the stakes, and so do the men who serve on the small council. Ye’d do well to listen to them before ye speak.”

There was silence, a dreadful weight that burdened the people of the court present in the room. No one had dared speak in such a way to the King, and this Northern girl, more a woman than the sheepish things that strolled through the gardens and sewed pretty things, had given him a tongue lashing without hesitation. She didn’t flinch, or back down. A few in the throne room secretly admired her boldness, but more feared she would be dead come morning. Joffrey had a vicious streak, and he was loathe to be talked down to in such a manner. 

Queen Cersei tried her hardest to cover her smirk, expression distant and thoughtful, as if she had misjudged the young woman, not for the first time. The silence dragged on, Joffrey sitting frozen in rage and shock, while Baelish ran scenarios with a worried expression, Lord Varys calmly waited, and Sandor Clegane stood poised to do his master’s bidding, but his eyes betrayed him. The giant of a warrior was hiding his satisfied grin behind a snarl, but his eyes were warm with approval and mirth. He had enjoyed watching the dressing down given to the little boy king, as if he had been waiting quite a long time to witness it, or be the one to do it himself. 

The young woman looked back to Queen Cersei, nodding once and taking her leave without asking permission again. She heard the tell tale sound of clanking metal as Clegane followed suit, and the rush of hushed voices as the whispers started up again, and the shrill sputtering of that little boy sitting on the throne, while his mother calmed his ego. It would have been humorous, if she wasn’t taking in the fact that she had challenged Joffrey, undermined him in his own court. King Robert would have been indignant, but he would have laughed, amused. Joffrey was no Robert, and he was no Tywin Lannister, either. Nor Howland Reed, or Eddard Stark. Perhaps a Bolton, or a Targaryen. 

The boy was sick, and it showed. 


	2. Chapter Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Still following the same timeline/storyline as in Lionheart, the brother fic to this with a Jaime/OFC pairing. Will continue to post/update as quickly as I can. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!
> 
> No regrets!

CHAPTER TWO 

Once she was clear of the throne room, and deep into the corridors of the Red Keep, she slowed until Clegane had caught up, both falling into step with the other as he walked with her to the baths in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable in the slightest, despite the thudding of her rapidly beating heart, and the sharp clank of his armor, and his heavy step. She stole no more than two glances up at him, the feared, bloodthirsty Hound of the Lannisters. He was deadly, or could be, and built like a stone shithouse. The left side of his face was deeply scarred, giving him the appearance of being half-melted, but it did not take away from his brutish attractiveness. He still had intriguing brown eyes like oak aged ale - a strong jaw and broad shoulders.

“You should learn to control that mouth of yours,” Clegane said, low and rough, but a smirk pulled at the corner of his lips. “Little cunt’ll make you pay for disrespecting him.”

“The little cunt would do well to control his temper,” she quipped in return, matching his smirk with a mischievous glint in her green eyes. “He’s too young, too spoiled, and too arrogant. A little whelp needing a hard beating.” 

“Aye, and who would be stupid enough to go about it?” He gruffed, opening the rather plain looking doors to the hot baths. “No one in this city willing to lose their own head to teach him.” 

There was no one in the baths when she entered, only the steam rising from the surface of the pools. She started to undo the long, thick braid of hair that ran down her back, stopping at the sound of the door creaking. Clegane was already closing the door, barring it with a large wood beam. He looked back at her, heavy in the brow of the marred side of his face. 

“I’ll pour you a drink,” she said after a pause, looking at him openly as she undid her knotted curls from the braid. “Speak your mind, Sandor. There’s no secrets between us.”

By then, she was already shedding the torn bits of leather armor that had been made to fit her curves, having grown tired of the mess that was her hair. She was observing Clegane intently, looking for his answer before he gave it. He was weighing his options, on whether this would be the time someone caught them. Despite the brutal hardness of him, there was a whimpering child inside, distrustful of most, but gentle to the rare few he actually cared about. 

She didn’t push for him to stay, simply continued to undress as he watched her expression with a narrowed gaze. He never looked down to take in the sight of her naked flesh. He was waiting for someone to come knocking at the door, for her to finally pool the wool from over his eyes. He was still so distrustful, because that was how cruel his life had been. Instead, as bare to the world as the day she was born, she crossed to a table and started filling two cups to the brim with sweet red wine. All she did was leave one behind for him to take, as she splashed down into one of the steaming pools, resting on a ledge and sipping her drink. 

They simply watched each other, waiting. 

“You’re a stupid cunt, Kenna,” the man growled, stomping over to the table to grab the cup of wine. “You’ll be dead before the week is out. You should have told me before you tried taking off.” 

“You’d be surprised what I can survive,” she replied, downing her cup and setting it on the edge of the floor. Tilting her head back, she wet her hair, and started the precarious work of pulling out her braid again. “I had to get a raven to my father, and I couldn’t have done it from inside of King’s Landing. Not with Ned Stark arrested for treason.” 

He grunted, dragging a chair to the edge of the pool with the pitcher of wine in hand. He didn’t speak, just sat and drank straight from the pitcher, refilling her cup every so often when she lifted it up for more. She drank and scrubbed, drank and washed, drank and enjoyed the sensation of floating in hot water, despite a giant of a man sitting and watching her do it. She just waited for him to speak, break the silence and call her a cunt again. He had always reminded her of the crannogmen, never mincing his words, refusing to school his language in front of a woman, or a lady. 

She scrubbed her face and washed her hair last, sinking under the surface to rinse it out. She took her time, washing and scrubbing and buffing away the blood and dirt that had built up over the days spent eluding the Red Cloaks after Ned Stark’s arrest. Sleeping on the muddy banks of streams, cutting down would-be rapists that meant to drag her deeper into the woods. Yet, she still regretted nothing. She had a duty to her house, and she had to warn her father of what had become of his oldest friend.

“What business did you have sending a raven to your bloody father?” was the question Clegane chose to break the quiet that had settled upon them. “No reason to lie about it to me.”

She shrugged, gulping down her cup of wine and lifting it for a refill again, “I had to tell him before the ravens flew from King’s Landing. I had to make sure he didn’t send the banners to the Starks. I killed most of the Red Cloaks that rode me down, and some random men in the woods before that. I didn’t want my father to worry.”

“You liked killing them,” he said, and it was an observation, not a question. He understood, because he knew. He liked killing, the rush of a fight and the thrill of winning while his opponent was dying. “You’d do it again, if you could.” 

“There is nothing more satisfying,” was her answer, resting her head upon her arms on the stone floor at his feet, smiling unabashed at him. “You know better than anyone, there’s no denying that.”

“Aye,” he replied, gulping down the last of the wine and getting up for more. “At least you listened to one damn thing I told you.” 

“Thank you,” she said, following him with her gaze as he returned with another full pitcher and filled her cup to overflowing. “You’re too tense. I promised you it would all work out, didn’t I?”

He chugged the wine, wiping the mess from his mouth and his beard, nodding, “You’re goin’ to get us both killed.”

“I’d like to think I’ve planned this quite perfectly.”

“You’re a fucking idiot if you think the Lannisters aren’t three steps ahead,” he grumbled, looking down at her smiling face, obviously irritated by the way his harsh words did not make her flinch. “Bloody fucking hell.” 

Clegane set the pitcher on the ground and started pulling off his armor, piece by piece, until he stood as naked as she, but far more sweaty, and with a sour smell wafting off of him. She wondered how long it had been since he last bathed, or brushed his teeth, or gave a fuck about himself at all. It must have been the day before Ned Stark was arrested. The way he drank, it was quite obvious he was troubled by a great many things that he’d rather not be troubled with, and would rather bury them under a more pleasant haze, numb to the world around him. That had always been obvious to her, from the start. 

Backing away from the ledge, she gave him room enough to step down into the water, gaze starting at his bare feet and moving slowly up to his face. 

Despite the dirt, he had large feet, broad and with a deep arch. Traveling up his legs, she noticed the thick musculature that held his large frame, and then his thighs. Then his cock, which lay flaccid between his legs, partially covering his heavy balls, but just as alarming as his stature if one was seeing him for the first time. His torso wasn’t defined with sculpted muscles, but his abdomen was flat enough, definitely firm, and his pelvic bone was noticeable. He was coated sparsely in, most covering his broad chest, tapering down to a sparse line leading to his manhood. His shoulders were wide, defined, and so was his chest, his pectorals. His neck was unshaven, and his jaw and cheeks were covered in a short beard, only a few weeks of growth since he’d last sheared it down. His brown eyes were hard, and his mouth was curled in a snarl. He still wore his hair pushed over to hide most of the scars that twisted the left side of his face, but that didn’t matter to her, it never had. 

Clegane stepped down in the bath, sitting on the ledge and reaching for the wine, but with a cruel expression as his focus on Kenna never wavered, “You’ll have your fill of my ugly fucking face one day.” 

Kenna simply invaded his space, capturing his lips as she settled over his lap, straddling him and guiding the pitcher to sit on the edge. His breath was hot and just as sour as the rest of him, but he returned her fervor in spades, clutching her hips in his large hands. He groaned, she moaned, but eventually they parted, reluctantly. Both were out of breath, and very much aroused. It pained her to wait to have him in the way that they both wanted. Regrettably, she was aware that her intact virtue meant more to the realm than it did to her. If she was ever called to be examined, in order to discredit her name and her requests, it was easier to be a virgin than to fake it. 

Sandor didn’t move as she reached for the soap, and the brush for scrubbing, and the cloth for his face, “I never really noticed the scars all those years ago. I noticed how tall you were, how strong, the color of your eyes, the way you always hit your mark during a fight. They have never bothered me over the years, and they don’t bother me now. You’re not a monster, Sandor. Your brother is a monster, but not you. Never you.” 

“You’re a dumb -”

“Cunt. I know,” she smiled softly, using the soaking cloth to wet his hair back from his face. “You’re not honorable, but you’re honest. Physically, you’re more of a man than all the lords of the Seven Kingdoms, but even the strongest of men have fears and weaknesses. I don’t judge them for it, and I don’t judge you for it. Drowning yourself in wine to ignore whatever it is you don’t want to think about is only going to kill you before you get the chance to kill your brother.”

He didn’t say anything, because he knew it to be true, and just watched her as she gently dabbed the grime from his scars. Kenna took that as a silent approval to keep talking to him, keep touching him. The water lapped at his stomach, bunched and tense with her so close, so naked, breasts grazing against his flesh and her cunt ghosting over his cock. She was always impressed by his restraint. He was still flaccid. 

“I would never call you a coward, unless you acted like a coward,” she continued, moving the cloth to the other side of his face. “But I see you. There is something deep inside that troubles you, and despite what you think of yourself, I see you - all of you. You are worthy of your desires. Remember that, for yourself.” 

Kenna continued to scrub him, wash him, knead his taut muscles down to his waist, and then further to his thighs. She floated back, lifting one hefty leg before the other to rest on her dainty shoulder to gently scrub his thighs, his knees, all the way down to his feet. Then she moved back to his lap, leaning back to reach down and wash his cock with a soft hand and lathered cloth. His manhood had begun to stir when she massaged his arms, shoulders and chest. When she slid her hand below the surface to hold it at the base, Kenna found him growing quickly. He was thick, and long, and riddled with throbbing veins. She couldn’t even touch her thumb to her middle finger around him when he was at full mast and pulsing against her palm. 

Panting in unison with Clegane, she cleared her throat, asking him to turn around. He grunted and groaned when her hand fell away from his cock, but he complied, with an almost amused, yet curious expression. He rested his head on his arms, he let her wash his back, working out the tension there, as well. 

Then he looked back at her with that same ferocious intrigue when she set the cloth and the soap and the brush to the side. He must have assumed she continued with her teasing, but he hadn’t been expecting her to nip at the flesh over his spine, working her way up to the base of his neck, while her hands slid around to his front. He fought it, the experience of being cared for and worshipped - he always did - even as one hand traced the scars across his front, while the other caressed his thick cock. Kenna grinned into his back when a long, guttural groan escaped him, tightening her grip on his shaft as she stroked him. It was the most amazing sound to her ears, him moaning as her hand pleasured him, and as she bit and nipped along the width of his shoulder blades. 

“Fuck, woman,” Clegane growled, body shuddering as she increased the pace, grip tightening at the bottom of his cock, twisting him on the way up. “Kenna… Seven hells.”

Kenna bit down on the flesh at the junction where his neck met his shoulder, and he roared his release. It always pleased her, urged her on to be more brazen, when her name rolled so easily off his tongue in that rasping baritone. It sounded so right, and she tortured him further with several long, slow strokes, until he turned soft in her hand. Still panting, and more tense than he had been before, she worked her nimble fingers over his back once more, massaging out the stress while he cooled down. His breathing eventually returned to normal, and she peppered his naked flesh with kisses, her small hands smoothing over his lower back, thumbs pressing into the line of his spine. That earned her another long, drawn out groan, and a sigh of contentment. The muscles of his back rippled under her touch, flexing, and she was still utterly infatuated by the sight, so aroused by Sandor Clegane and the power in him that was poised to be unleashed.

After a time, Clegane, saying nothing, turned back around to face her, sitting on the ledge in the bath, and watched intently when she settled back on his lap, breasts pressed flush against his stomach while she looked up and traced her fingers over the scars of his face. She could feel the way the scars were rough.

“Tell me, Sandor,” said Kenna, gently, almost a whisper as she cupped his face and stared into the guarded depths of his eyes. “If I were request you as my husband, would you agree? Become the Lord of Greywater Watch and train the men and women of our sworn houses until we die?”

His brow furrowed, and he shoved her back, turning away to grab the pitcher of wine and chug it greedily. When it was empty, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, primed with a snarl, “You think this is funny? You think you can win this game? You think the Lannisters will agree because you command an army and you slapped down that little cunt of a king? You really are a dumb -”

Kenna had swam back to him, getting close, before cutting him off with a fierce glare and a slap. She grabbed him by the hair and forced his head back, rising up to hover over him and stare into his eyes again, “I don’t find any of this funny. I am not playing games at your expense. I love you, and you know that I do. If I have to bargain with the Lannisters, then so be it. We’ve waited long enough, Sandor.”

“Again, would you agree to a marriage if I put the proposal to the small council?” Kenna asked again, snarling right back into his face. He just looked up at her, with large eyes wide with shock and uncertainty. She watched him war with whatever thoughts were running through his head before letting go of his hair and stepping out of the pool, “You have a month to give me an answer, or I’ll demand Tyrion fucking Lannister.”

Kenna left him there, wrapping a large flannel around herself and gathering up her filthy, torn clothes, slamming the door to the bathes behind her. There was no shame in her mind, as she moved through the keep unseen to her chambers across from Sansa Stark. She locked herself inside for the better part of the day, pacing for quite some time before she stopped before a window to gaze out at the city. Still fuming, but exhausted, Kenna let the flannel drop to the floor, and tied her curly brown hair into a high bun atop her head. Slipping between the thin sheets on the bed, she laid there and slept in the sunshine, bare skin turning pink in the warmth as the afternoon faded into night, and night faded to morning. 

  
  



	3. Chapter Three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Innocence never lasts for long in King's Landing...

CHAPTER THREE 

No matter what most people would say, Lord Varys could be trusted to keep his mouth shut when it served the realm. Kenna had found the eunuch was easily trustworthy, as long as you understood his motives, and he trusted you in return. They had kept plenty of secrets for each other over the years, and especially over the months since Kenna had arrived in King’s Landing with the Starks. There had been a definite need to befriend Varys, as interactions with Sandor Clegane began to escalate from passing comments in the halls of the keep to clandestine meetings in the baths, the godswood, and other hidden alcoves throughout King’s Landing. With Varys’ assistance intercepting the spies and whispers intended to Cersei and Baelish, Kenna and Sandor had yet to be found out. 

In return, Kenna had been asked favors by Varys, to which she gladly did without question. He had never asked her to participate in anything treasonous, but there had been enough favors to have perfected sneaking around the castle and out into the city without notice. Already a silent hunter in the marshes and bogs of the Neck, slipping through the Red Keep had come with its own lessons to be learned. Over the years, during regular visits to the capital tourneys and celebrations with her mother’s family, as representatives of House Reed, Kenna had begun flitting around in the shadows, learning of all the secret passages with Tyrion, hiding in the rafters and listening in on people’s conversations. She had learned a lot, had been caught but a few times, and Varys had used that to his advantage on more than one occasion. 

Though, as the days passed after Eddard Stark’s arrest, Kenna had called in a favor of her own, and followed Varys down into the depths of the dungeons, to the black cells. Both of them had dressed up as wardens, and she had felt like a brother of the Night’s Watch, clad in so much boiled black leather. They carried burning torches, and neither flinched as the light caused the rats to scatter. The smell, on the other hand, was wretched and foul. It was decay, mold, and sewage. There were also overwhelming notes of blood, piss and shit that threatened to choke her. 

Varys had warned her against it, journeying underneath the keep to speak with Ned Stark, but Kenna wouldn’t hear his words. She had needed to speak with her father’s oldest friend before he died, because she knew that he would die, no matter how many times Sansa begged for mercy. Down into the darkness, with only the flickering light of the torches, Kenna was shown the isolated cell that housed Ned Stark, and Varys took his leave. 

Kenna had pulled out two loaves of brown bread and three wineskins filled to bursting with water for her liege lord, and waited until he was ready to speak. When he did, it was to question her about being there, advising her of the dangers, but Kenna waved them off. She already understood the risks, but she had received a secret raven from her father just the morning before, and it was prudent to discuss certain information with the head of House Stark. 

She kept her voice bare above a whisper, and he did the same, understanding the circumstances of the sensitive information. She spoke about what her father had divulged to her about the day Lyanna Stark died in the Tower of Joy, and Lord Stark asked her silence until Jon was older, when the coming wars were over, when peace had settled over the Seven Kingdoms. She asked his forgiveness for bargaining with the Lannisters to secure mercy for his family and himself, and to negotiate a marriage based on selfish desire. He said he understood, and thanked her for her honesty, forgave her for her weakness. He asked her to watch over Sansa, protect her as much as possible, and Kenna swore on her life to do so, promising to find a way to get his daughter out of the capital and back to Winterfell. If Winterfell was too dangerous a journey, she promised to take the girl to her own home at Greywater Watch, where Sansa would be safe, and no southerner would be able to find them. 

Kenna stayed down in the black cells for more than an hour before Lord Stark urged her to go, loathe to have her discovered when she needed to prove loyalty to the crown. She bid him a peaceful rest, both of them knowing he would never survive his sentencing on the steps of Baelor by the morrow. He knew it to be true when she said it, and she just simply knew it. 

Kenna had been right. 

She had pulled Sansa close, holding the girl in a fierce embrace when Joffrey called for Ned Stark’s head. When the girl fainted, Kenna had continued to hold her, refusing assistance from the guards, and coaxing the girl back to consciousness. For the rest of the afternoon, and the following day, Kenna had locked them both into her own chambers. She took care of Sansa, comforted the little auburn haired beauty until she drifted off into a restless sleep. 

Once Sansa had recovered from the initial shock, and Kenna had discussed what to expect now that no Starks or lord fathers were around to protect them, did the girl nod and venture back to her own rooms with renewed strength. They stayed close together, and Kenna walked with her in the gardens most days, when the girl was feeling up to the sunshine. Other days, they stayed in Kenna’s chambers; Sansa practicing embroidering some of her new dresses, or staring out the windows at nothing, while Kenna sharpened blades or read into the early hours of the evening. Some days Sansa sat and watched Kenna get fitted for a replacement of her leather breeches and metal worked vest, or a few dresses in grey-green or dandelion yellow with black accents and trims in a style that Cersei Lannister approved, more Southern, less crannog and northern. 

More ladylike, was the term Queen Cersei used, but to Kenna’s surprise, it had been said with genuine care, almost sincerity, instead of a backhanded comment. The Queen Regent had requested Kenna and Sansa’s presence more and more frequently as the days turned into weeks. While Sansa sat perched with Princess Myrcella and the royal septa, continuing lessons on the history of the Seven Kingdoms and needlework, the Queen and Kenna sat in warm sunlight, sipping iced wine and discussing the growing war, Joffrey and his siblings, stories of the crannogs and the Children of the Forest and the First Men of the swamps and marshes. Some times, Kenna sat with Tommen as he told her all about his cats, especially Ser Pounce, and after the little boy was taken away by his septa, Cersei discussed her concerns for the boy’s timid sweetness. 

“Sometimes I wonder if he needs to be hardened,” admitted Cersei, late one afternoon when they were alone. “He’s too kind, too sweet. I worry for him. I worry for all my children.” 

Kenna finished her glass of wine and nodded, “You have every right to worry, Your Grace. I have yet to be blessed with children of my own, but I have seen how far a mother will go to protect her young. Your children are heirs to the throne, one of them sits on it as we speak. The difference between Prince Tommen and King Joffrey, if you’ll permit me to say, is that Joffrey is never bothered to listen to what it truly means to rule, and Tommen has the capacity for it with the right guidance.”

“Have you given more thought to possible suitors, Lady Kenna?” Cersei asked after a pause, transitioning away from discussion of King Joffrey, too proud to admit she could no longer control her own son. “There is less than a week left before the proposals are due to the small council.” 

Kenna nodded, unable to avoid providing the Queen with information any longer. Usually, she would simply tell Cersei that she was considering her options, but none that had really struck her as Neck material. Now, though, that she was days away from submitting her small list of acceptable husbands, Kenna could not skirt around the topic. Cersei would push now, and Kenna almost admired the woman’s ability to be persistent without forcing the issue. 

“Unfortunately, I’m uncertain that you will approve,” Kenna answered, apologetically. “Of course, you may find them humorous. It’s hard to tell.” 

“Come, little warrior,” said Cersei, eyes glittering with amusement. “Tell me. I’ve waited patiently long enough.” 

“Sandor Clegane, Your Grace,” said Kenna, expression grim, but indifferent. “As well as your brother, Tyrion. Those are the only two men that I have been able to consider with my father’s approval. One is a warrior, one is intelligent, both are are loyal to House Lannister - an even compromise.”

Cersei was attempting to bite back laughter, “What of Ser Gregor Clegane?” 

“I would prefer to survive my wedding night, Your Grace,” replied Kenna, physically flinching at the thought of that monster touching her. “He has an awful reputation for dead wives. The Hound is a much better choice. He follows Lannister orders, is one of the strongest men in the realm, and would be welcomed as Lord of the Neck. The crannogmen would follow him, and he would follow the crown.”

Cersei raised an eyebrow, nodding along almost in approval of the thought Kenna had put into the choice, but she still raised questions about the latter suitor, “Tyrion, the little beast… How would he fit in the Neck?”

“We have been friends of sorts for years, mostly by raven,” admitted Kenna, holding out her cup for more wine. “While I am firm on Sandor Clegane as my first choice, if I were not allowed him for some reason, then I can see myself being comfortable with Tyrion. The crannogmen would simply assume he was one of the Children of the Forest, or ask him to dance.”

It hurt Kenna to say such things about Tyrion, having never been bothered by his stature, and admired his wit and intelligence, but to play Cersei, she needed to appease the woman’s hatred of her own little brother. As it happened, Kenna’s remark about Children of the Forest caused quite a laughing fit, Cersei coughing on her wine as it took her by surprise. The Queen snorted and giggled, weeping with mirth over the comment, and Kenna joined her jubilant disposition to further appeal to Cersei. Of course, she knew that Tywin Lannister would never allow his hated son to marry a highborn like Kenna. He would be looking at Highgarden, or Dorne, possibly Sansa Stark as the key to the North if Robb Stark was defeated. He would simply need to bring forth a better candidate as Queen for Joffrey, and the game would be set. If it took a simple Clegane to keep the Neck loyal to the crown and to the Lannisters, Tywin would enforce the match posthaste. 

“You put effort into your choices, Lady Kenna,” said Cersei, panting from her enjoyment, raising a glass to the younger woman. “Pretty words, as well. Lannister loyal. You almost had me fooled.”

Kenna didn’t speak. She sipped her wine with a smirk, and waited for the Queen to let her knowledge slip. She didn’t have to wait long, because the woman liked to gloat. That was the downfall of pride. 

“I remember a little girl with wild curls and dirt on her cheeks as she followed Clegane around the keep. Of course, that was years ago,” Cersei said, returning Kenna’s own smirk. “Then that little girl grew up, and following turned into glances when she thought no one was looking. Glances turned into words exchanged in passing, but the looks you both give each other says it all. You’ve fancied Clegane for quite a long time. I wonder how far this little infatuation has gone between you two.” 

Kenna shrugged, “No more than short conversations and traded japes. I posed the offer to him weeks ago, but he’s given no answer. He’s very loyal to the crown, to the Lannisters. I’ve always enjoyed the aesthetic of a large, built man. If you are worried about my virtue, I would be willing to submit to an examination by a maester. Preferably not Pycelle. He has a stench about him that turns my stomach.” 

Cersei laughed again, raising her glass, as did Kenna, “I will drink to that. He smells like dead cats.” 

Silence fell upon them as they continued to drink and watch the setting sun on the horizon, the way Blackwater Bay reflected the reds and golds of the sky like glittering gems. As evening fell, Kenna rose from her seat and curtsied to the Queen, offering to fetch Sansa to sup before she retired for the night. Cersei remained quiet for several moments longer, and then nodded her head, dismissing Kenna for the time being. 

Before Kenna could open the door to leave, Cersei called to her with a question, “How many men would the Neck be willing to give the crown in exchange for the Hound? I’m curious.”

“The full 15,000,” replied Kenna, looking back over her shoulder at a contemplative Queen. “9,000 to the battlefield, and 6,000 to hold the Neck to prevent the Northern army from retreating back to their home lands. The number can be divided however Lord Tywin sees fit, but 6,000 would do well to cut off the northern army.”

“And how many for Tyrion?” 

“10,000 only, and there would be no guarantee to stop Robb Stark’s bannermen at the Neck.” 

“Why so many for Clegane?” The question was gentle, but there was something that set Kenna on edge in that question that hadn’t before. “You’re putting more men to the frontlines for a dog.” 

“I mean no offense, but strong sons are worth more than smart ones in the Neck, Your Grace,” was Kenna’s answer, offering a last curtsy before exiting the Queen’s solar and shutting the door. 

  
  
  
  



	4. Chapter Four

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Decisions cannot be delayed, and rejection cuts to the bone...

CHAPTER FOUR

  
  


The following days were filled with events for the King’s name day tourney, and still Kenna had not received an answer from Sandor. She hoped he would forgive her eventually, since she had already provided identical copies of her proposals to the small council, and the Queen, as well as one sent by raven to Tywin Lannister. None had bothered to speak of it to the King until there was an agreement. Kenna had not excluded Sandor from the parchments. She had submitted them with him as her first choice, and the best terms for the Lannisters and the crown, without his consent. 

So far, she was waiting to be called forth by the small council for negotiations, to which she would remain immovable. She also knew that when she was requested, so would Sandor, as well as Tyrion, if he arrived back in King’s Landing in time. The last raven had been after his release from the Vale, which had been less than a fortnight prior. He should have returned within that time. Even if she was Sandor’s, through and through, Kenna still worried for her friend. Tyrion had always been the best of the Lannisters, in her opinion. 

“Well struck, dog!” cried Joffrey from his perch against the ledge of the ramparts. Kenna had to look at Sansa, or straight forward, as one look down would send her into a fit of panic. Thankfully, the little cunt of a king had turned to Sansa for conversation, “Did you like that?” 

Why did he always have to enforce his authority on the girl? Hadn’t she suffered enough? 

Sansa answered simply with a flat tone, “It was well struck, Your Grace.”

“I already said it was well struck,” scoffed Joffrey, and Kenna prided herself in her ability to school her features to remain indifferent, as all she wanted to do was laugh at Sansa’s underhanded jab. 

“Yes, Your Grace,” answered Sansa, again with that flat exasperation that was perfectly polite, but hollow in sincerity. 

The girl was starting to use what Kenna had been teaching her in the privacy of their independent chambers, but she lacked the finesse that would come with practice. 

Kenna reached out and took Sansa’s hand, giving it a squeeze as she watched the Hound trek back to the raised little platform that provided shade and refreshments for the King and his siblings, as well as Kenna and Sansa. The shade was welcome, as it was unbearably hot that day. The summers in the Neck were still partially cool, but there was a suffocating humidity in the marshes and mires, the moisture in the air always present. In King’s Landing, it was almost a dry heat, with the spray of the sea flowing through the city, bringing with it the horrid smell of sweat and shit that always lingered. 

“You can’t!” cried Sansa, jolting Kenna from her thoughts, while her eyes had followed Sandor all the way back to the side of the king. 

Kenna squeezed the girl’s hand in warning instead of support, turning her head to assess the situation of the Knight of House Hollard being force fed wine until he drowned. The outburst must have startled Sansa, herself, as she was close to shaking. There was nothing Kenna could say to calm the king’s temper. It was common knowledge by now that the little cunt wanted something - anything - to use against her and demand her head. So far, Cersei had managed to talk sense into Joffrey, stepping in as a shield of sorts to protect the Reed girl to an extent. They needed House Reed’s army, and they couldn’t risk so many men and women turning to fight for the Starks. Cersei had done something harsh to stop the boy from his scheming, and Kenna wasn’t entirely sure if she wanted to know how. 

“What did you say?” asked Joffrey, cold and menacing. “Did you say I can’t?”

Sansa was on the verge of stuttering, “I only meant… It would be bad luck to kill a man on your name day.” 

“What kind of stupid peasant’s superstition -”

“The girl is right,” interjected Sandor, leaning in to address the king. “What a man sows on his name day, he reaps all year.” 

He said it like a fact, supporting Sansa publicly in a way that he had never done for Kenna. Not once. Not ever. He had never stepped in to protect her, which jolted he with quite a sudden shock of jealousy, as Kenna knew that she had never required protection. Yet, it was the principal. It made her wonder, and question the foundation of his commitment. Of course, he had never spoken of being committed to her. In fact, there had been one instance in the past few weeks that she had passed him in the corridors and caught the scent of vulgar perfume and sex, and she had been desperate to attack him right then in front of the king. Sandor Clegane was hers, and he knew that. She had marked him. He knew how she felt, and he had gone and slept with a whore to get back at her for their little spat upon her return to the capital. 

She’d scratch his eyes out and maim his fucking cock for it if they were ever alone again.

“Take him away,” huffed Joffrey, like a petty little child. “I’ll have him killed tomorrow, the fool.” 

“He is,” offered Kenna, looking past Sansa and the king to Sandor, a murderous glint in her green eyes. 

Sansa caught on, latching onto the idea quickly as she spoke to the king, “A fool - you’re so clever to see it. He’ll make a much better fool than a knight. He doesn’t deserve the mercy of a quick death.”

Sandor had flinched at the look Kenna had given him, straightening his posture and looking ahead, away from her, while Joffrey mulled over the idea as Dontos spewed pints upon pints of wine. After a few short moments, Joffrey was pacified, “Did you hear my lady, Ser Dontos? From this day, you’re be my new fool.”

Gratitude was offered by Ser Dontos, and then he was dragged away. Kenna was formulating a lie to excuse herself from the remainder of the tourney when the familiar voice of Tyrion Lannister bellowed jovially from behind the royal party. Kenna turned to look in the direction of his voice, and her scowl was replaced with a smile at the sight of the court parting to allow Tyrion and his traveling party through. He was followed by a rugged man of middle age with a crooked nose and the gait of a man who was cocksure, as well as hill tribe leaders of the Vale. Kenna recognized them instantly, having come across a few of the clans settling in the mires of the Neck. 

“Beloved nephew! We looked for you on the battlefield,” said Tyrion, climbing the few steps up to the canopied platform to pour himself a cup of chilled summer wine. He had never hesitated to speak his mind, fluent in the art of sarcasm and backhanded compliments. “You were nowhere to be found.” 

Kenna smirked behind Joffrey’s back, following Tyrion with her gaze, which was much better than glaring at Sandor for the rest of the afternoon. 

Joffrey stumbled over his words, caught off guard by his uncle’s comment, “I’ve… been here, ruling the Kingdoms.”

“What a fine job you’ve done,” replied Tyrion, his words dripping with sarcasm and Kenna bit down on her tongue to stop from laughing. She watched as he spoke to Myrcella, greeting his darling niece warmly, “Look at you! More beautiful than ever,” and then he moved on to Tommen, “And you! You - you’re going to be bigger than the Hound, but much better looking.” 

Sandor glared at the Lannister man, while Kenna hid a smirk behind her cup of wine. 

Tyrion pointed to Sandor, but spoke to the man with the broken nose, “This one doesn’t like me much.” 

“Can’t imagine why,” was the companion’s reply. 

The continued conversation was lost to Kenna, as a paige appeared at her side, “Lady Reed, your presence is requested by the small council.” 

The young man didn’t leave room for her to question the request, as he had already moved on to Sandor. There wasn’t much Kenna could do to avoid the impending wrath that Clegane would unleash if this meeting was about her proposals. Downing the last of her wine, Kenna stood, brushing the skirts of her airy southern gown of fluttery silks of sunflower yellow and black trimmings, uncomfortable with the way her wild curls of dark brown had been tamed into silken, voluminous ringlets that brushed the slope of her arse, twisted back away from her face and pinned under the layers of her hair. She was used to braiding her hair from the hairline and down her back, or tying it back with a leather thong, and she was more comfortable in leather and breeches, as there was no real use of gowns and dresses in Greywater Watch. 

By the time Kenna had righted her skirts the paige had returned with Clegane, and without a glance to either of them, she stepped around and greeted Tyrion as he also made his way to the small council chambers. He had returned her greeting and kissed her hand, regaling her with stories of his adventures as everyone else trailed behind them. At one point, as they crossed the throne room, Kenna swore she heard a derogatory grunt from Sandor, who had moved up ahead of the group to keep pace directly behind her, yet she refused to look back at him. 

Everyone save Tyrion was blocked from entering the small council, advised to wait until called upon. Tyrion continued on with a skip in his step, whistling the Raines of Castamere. Kenna leaned against a column, aware of the way Clegane was stealing glances at her with a hard gaze, but, again, she refused to acknowledge him as a form of punishment. He had resolutely avoided her for a month, slept with a whore, and still had not provided a simple answer to her question of marriage. She was not a simpering woman, far from it. She was an angry woman, though, and she had no issue making him suffer for a while. 

“I remember you,” came a voice, breaking the tense silence that had settled upon the small crowd. It was the man that had accompanied Tyrion, the one with the broken nose and the weather worn face. He was staring directly at her, leaning against a pillar opposite Kenna, “Years ago, mind ye. Caught me hunting too close to your little floating castle. Never been bested by a girl before. Threw me out of the Neck with a bloody nose and black eye.” 

Kenna narrowed her gaze, looking over his features again until she recognized him, “I believe I maimed your manhood, as well, when you tried to make a pass. You were shit with a sword then. For a sellsword, I thought you’d be more of a challenge.” 

Sandor snorted next to her, but Kenna continued to ignore him, knowing full well it would grate his nerves. 

“Bronn, m’lady,” said the sellsword offered, leaning forward across the space to take her hand. Kenna shook it hesitantly. “Never did learn your name.”

“Lady Kenna Reed,” she replied, withdrawing her hand from his. “You’ve moved up in the world, a paid man to Tyrion Lannister -”

There was noise, a yell - Cersei, it sounded like - and then the Masters of the small council hurried out to wait alongside everyone else. Varys settled on her other side once he saw her, while Baelish, Pycelle and Janos fucking Slynt stayed close to the door, straining to hear what the Queen and Tyrion were saying. Conversation abruptly ended between Bronn and Kenna, she turned her focus to Varys, who looked upon her with an odd expression. 

“Is there something on your mind, Lord Varys?” asked Kenna, offering the man a warm, genuine smile. She had turned her head into him, speaking in a quiet sigh to prevent most from hearing the conversation. “Any warnings I should hear before the small council commences once more?”

“None that would leave your mind at ease,” replied Varys. “There was a raven this morning from Tywin Lannister. Despite the insult of less men for his son, he sent a counter offer as Hand of the King. I daresay you will not enjoy his proposals.”

“What can he do to force me? Is his pride that important?” said Kenna, exasperated. “15,000 strong in exchange for my choice, or less and less until he gets nothing but my head on a spike and my army joins the Starks. I warned them all there would be no negotiating. I’m being generous by entertaining discussions on how many men I will lend to aide the Lannisters.”

Varys raised an eyebrow and offered her a grim look, unable to answer that question. There was no need to answer it, at any rate. Kenna was aware of how much pride the Lannisters had for their prestige and their family and their legacy. Yes, it was an insult to negotiate less men for Tyrion’s hand in marriage, while she was willing to offer what she had claimed to be her entire army for the Hound. It would have been a slap in the face to Tywin Lannister, as well as showing her hand. It was obvious she wanted Clegane more, and that showed her weakness, but it still didn’t mean she would bend at Tywin’s command. 

She still had 20,000 men and women unaccounted for that the Lannisters and the crown did not know about, and she would gladly send all 35,000 to Robb Stark’s aide, even if it meant she lost her head for it. She was the daughter of the First Men and the crannogs. She had the blood of Children of the Forest and the ice of the First Men in her veins, and there was also power in the mires of the Neck, deep in the forests where the trees whispered their secrets and the leaves sang sad songs, and the rivers and streams told stories from the Dawn Age and before.

Silence settled in the corridor, while everyone waited for word that the small council could enter. The minutes passed by, turning into an hour, and then the creaking of the doors shattered the quiet reprieve, and a guard allowed the Masters of the council return, first. More time passed, and then the leaders of the hill tribe and Bronn were called in. Time ticked by again, and the presence of Sandor at her side became suffocating, as she desperately wanted to speak with him, look at him, touch him, but she was stubborn, and she was set on punishing him for a while longer. At least, until after the mess of the proposals were dealt with, and then she was prepared to take his wrath in whichever way he chose to dole it out. 

“Lady Reed, Clegane,” nodded the guard, opening the door as the tribesmen and Bronn exited. “They would see you now.” 

Sandor followed her inside, both stopping before the table housing the Queen Regent, Baelish, Pycelle, Varys, Slynt and Tyrion. The latter had a very grim expression on his face, finishing off his wine as if he would rather be anywhere else for the coming discussion. Sandor was simply scowling. Cersei wanted to be smug, but she had the look of a woman who pitied another. Varys was collected, despite his warning out in the corridor, and Pycelle was...Pycelle. Baelish looked like the cat who ate the canary, while Janos Slynt was leering as if he hadn’t seen a woman in years. 

“Lady Kenna,” said Cersei with a sigh, offering a rolled piece of parchment. “We have discussed the proposals you submitted, at great length. Despite the fact that Lord Tyrion will be acting Hand of the King, my father has certain conditions in response to your choices, as well as terms.” 

“You didn’t, girl,” warned Sandor in a snarl, staring down at her with a look that he would strangle her with his bare hands if he could at that moment. 

Kenna ignored him, crossing the distance to take the offered letter from Cersei with a curtsy and grace, expression blank as she read Tywin’s conditions. She read the words in silence, eyes hardening and jaw clenched as she grew more angry by the end. She handed it back to Cersei, who looked apologetic, and returned to Sandor’s side. 

Taking a moment to compose herself, Kenna cleared her throat and steeled her shoulders, back ramrod straight, “There will be no negotiations, as I said before. I will not entertain the notion of marrying Tywin Lannister, either. No offense, Your Grace, but he is too old, and the crannogs will never accept him. In regards to Jaime Lannister, I would not see a distinguished member of the Kingsguard discharged and called an oathbreaker. It is Sandor Clegane, or Tyrion, or my army will side with the North against you. Take my head or imprison me, these are my terms and I will not be moved.”

“Lady Reed, as acting Hand of the King -”

“I will not negotiate, my lord,” she said again, firm and unmoving like a mighty oak. “No matter how hard Lord Tywin pushes, I will not bend.”

“You’re fucking stupid,” grumbled Sandor, who now refused to even look at her. “Should have just told you no.”

“Why didn’t you, Clegane?” asked Tyrion, always the one to defend the downtrodden, and never one to allow an insult to someone he considered a true friend. “You’ve had a month, while I only just found out moments ago. The decision was easy enough for me. Are you afraid she has teeth down below?”

“Shut it, dwarf!” snarled Sandor, withdrawing behind a thick wall of rage. “A man would be stupid to turn a pretty bird down, but I’d rather not lose my head for some highborn cunt. I’ve no interest in being stuck listening to her fucking mouth for the rest of my fucking life. You highborns have her, just leave me out of it.” 

Sandor’s spurning was met with a fist, the force so full of rage and pain that it broke skin. His head whipped to the side, and he spat out a tooth that had been knocked loose. Before he could even turn back to look at her, Kenna had already clenched her fist at her side and moved forward, back to him, and facing the small council who looked on in shock. Except Baelish, who looked quite amused and very smug, as if he’d known this would happen - always several steps ahead of everyone else. She hated him, and she hated Sandor. 

“I will do as my Queen commands,” said Kenna, nails biting into the palms of her hands as she tried to maintain a strong facade, instead of collapsing to her knees in tears. She was not weak. Her heart was not broken. “What you bid, I will obey, Your Grace. 15,000 men and women, negotiations are now open.” 

“You may leave, Clegane,” commanded Cersei, standing. “I believe you’ve made your stance quite clear. Come, Lady Kenna. Take a seat, drink some wine. I believe we can come to a compromise.” 

Kenna never looked back as Sandor growled and grunted and took his leave, the door to the small council slamming behind him with profound thud that echoed. She flinched, despite her efforts to school her features and appear indifferent. She took the chair Cersei offered, taking her seat next to the Queen Regent, and downing the glass of wine set in front of her without hesitation. There was no sound except that of Kenna’s glass being refilled, by Cersei, no less. They all just watched her with pity, sympathy, or delight. She couldn’t bear to meet anyone’s gaze, wishing the wine to dull her senses more quickly. 

_ I will not shatter _ , Kenna told herself.  _ I am made of blood and steel. I am the child of the crannogs and the First Men. I have struck down enemies. I will not cry for Sandor Clegane. _

“Lady Kenna?” asked Tyrion, gently and tentatively. He offered her a sad smile when she finally forced her eyes up to meet his. “Are you certain you would not discuss this another day?” 

Kenna shook her head, blinking away unshed tears and pushing a smile forward, “You’re kind, my lord. If it is all the same, I would prefer to come to an agreement now.”

“Very well,” drawled the ever ancient Maester Pycelle. “In regards to suitors, I believe we can scratch the Hound from the list.” 

“Agreed,” said Baelish, looking down the table to Tyrion. “And what of you, my lord? Are you in agreement?”

“As I said before,” replied Tyrion. “The decision was easy enough for me, if the lady would still have me?”

Kenna nodded, looking to Cersei, and in that moment she understood a fundamental truth about the woman who was so spiteful, so hateful, and at times, so cruel. It was like looking in the mirror, the same disappointment, the same anger burning deep, “I will do as my Queen commands. If she finds the match between Lord Tyrion and myself to be agreeable, then I have no objections. I will alter the terms of the proposal to 12,000 to the crown and Lannister armies, and leave 3,000 to prevent the Northerners from retreating back into the North.”

“There is also the offer my father put forth,” broached Cersei quietly, a comforting hand on Kenna’s arm. “Jaime… would make you a good husband.”

Kenna looked back at the blonde woman, so beautiful and poised, but there was something painful in the way Cersei said it that made it very clear that marrying Jaime could be a death sentence, or earn her the Queen’s cold wrath. Also, there was sadness. Searching Cersei’s green eyes, Kenna noticed that there was a shared empathy that the woman wasn’t even attempting to hide. She was offering to share Jaime, to spare Kenna any more humiliation, but Kenna could never insert herself into the complex relationship that Cersei shared with her twin. It didn’t feel right. Sandor had always felt right, and true, and hers. Now he wasn’t, and he had made certain that Kenna wouldn’t even look at him again. 

That left Tyrion, or Tywin. 

Kenna would rather throw herself off the highest tower than wed an old, heartless bastard like Tywin Lannister. 

A tear escaped down Kenna’s cheek, and she wiped it quickly, shaking her head quickly at Cersei. Leaning in, merely a breath - a ghost of whisper - Kenna told her, “I could never take Jaime away from you.” 

The Queen Regent stiffened, but nodded, patting Kenna’s arm in appreciation as the men looked on in confusion. She whispered in return, keeping the exchange between them only, “Better you than Sansa Stark.”

Kenna pulled back, shocked, but there was a fiery determination in Cersei that she would rather not defy, “I will do as you command, Your Grace. Whatever pleases you more, I swear it.” 

“Then it is settled,” said Cersei, clutching Kenna’s hand in her own, less for comfort and more for strength. “Lady Kenna of House Reed will wed into the Lannister fold, by marriage to -”

“Clegane!” 

“Stand down, ser!” 

“I’m no fucking ser!”

There was a yell, and then the door to the small council was thrown open violently, stopping all discussion in its track as Sandor Clegane barged back in with a hateful snarl. The guards outside the doors were thrown to the ground, as he stormed through the room of the small council and unceremoniously pulled Kenna up to her feet before he started yelling at her. In all honesty, she had never truly seen his rage unleashed, and it was, perhaps, the most horrifying and mystifying force she had ever witnessed. 

“I told you, woman!” bellowed Sandor, spitting mad, quite literally. “I told you! You’re a dumb fucking cunt, but I’m telling you now - I’ll kill that fucking dwarf before I see you wedded and bedded by him! You want me so fucking much, then you’ll suffer me for the rest of our miserable fucking lives!” 

Kenna snatched her wrist from his grasp, and slapped him for good measure, hissing in return with venom, “What makes you think I’d accept now? Stomping back and suddenly agreeing? You meant what you said before, and I’ll not be taken for a cunt!”

“Woman,” he snarled, in warning, as she pulled back her hand to strike him again. The threat in his voice stalling her before she could strike. He looked to the Queen Regent, and then to the men of the small council with a glare, especially at Tyrion, “Fuck it, I accept. We’ll be wed. No fancy fucking frocks and simpering words.” 

With that said, Sandor stormed back out, grumbling about needing a fucking drink, and fucking women and their fucking ways. Everyone in the small council was left speechless, except for Cersei and Tyrion, who had sighed a resounding, “Thank the gods,” in unison, as the tension finally dissipated. Until Kenna threw her wine glass at the retreating back of her intended. The glass shattered against the wall, and Sandor never stopped, only calling out as he continued on his way, 

“Missed me, woman!” 

When he was gone, Baelish was the one to break the silence, “Well, it seems you have a wedding to plan, Lady Kenna.” 

“Yes, but not to him,” she said, more enraged by Sandor’s actions than before. Despite how much she loved him, and how much she wanted him, there was something that gripped her core and forced the next words passed her lips. “If Your Grace permits, I believe I will accept the offer of Lord Tyrion’s hand.”

Cersei simply nodded, going against her nature to close the distance and comfort the seething woman. Kenna was trembling with rage, staring off at the door Sandor had left through, debating whether she would kill him, or force him to watch as she wedded another. There was also a deeply rooted force telling her to let him go, and that there was a greater purpose in marrying Jaime or Tyrion, if only she knew which specifically, and why she felt it was detrimental to something horrible on the horizon. 

“Leave us,” commanded Cersei, guiding Kenna back to a chair. “Tyrion, stay.”

Everyone else left, and another wine glass, near overflowing this time, was set in front of Kenna without pause or pleasantries. Only Tyrion’s hand on her arm, while Cersei dabbed a kerchief at the young woman’s cheeks to stem the tears that were escaping. It was strange, yet comforting, receiving motherly care, especially from Cersei Lannister. It also shook her to the core how easily Sandor had wrenched tears from her eyes and ripped through her soul like steel through silk. 

“I hate him,” admitted Kenna, shocked that it had slipped out. More so than the sobs wracking her body as she curled in on herself. “By the Old Gods, I thought it would work.”

“What would work, my dear?” asked Cersei, gently holding Kenna to her chest like a mother would a heartbroken daughter. 

Kenna sobbed out an explanation as best she could, “Bargaining for him. Turning against the North for him… I loved him.”

“It is always the most painful, when your first love breaks your heart,” said Cersei, solemn and hinting at her own broken heart, once upon a time. “It is a lesson we all must endure, as horrible as it is. We’ll see you wed well, your heart safe, sweet girl. I promise that to you, as you’ve promised your army to us. A Lannister always pays their debts…” 


End file.
